


Identity Crisis

by forgettingthedetails



Category: Guidestuck, Homestuck
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgettingthedetails/pseuds/forgettingthedetails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>>Jaspers: Be a teenager for once</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished this, after 2 years. Would you believe that? Enjoy!

Your name is JASPERS LALONDE, and you might be a bit too DAPPER for someone your age. Or so you would hope. Your main focus is to be AS DAPPER AS FUCK. For a while you wanted to be really MATURE. But you conquered that beast like a pro, MATURE is your middle name. Yep, JASPERS MATURE LALONDE. Totally. 

You are laying in your bed, with your arms (still clad in a tailcoat) behind your head, fiddling with your hair. The room is dark, as always, but something is different.

Your computer is off in its corner, and there is not an open book in sight; Rose, that’s what missing, your lovable kitten has gone on a vacation with your father for the weekend, and you are old enough to not have a babysitter.

What will you do with this freedom?

> Jaspers: Go get a pen and paper to make a list

What!?! No! That idea is dumb and you are now denying that it evencrossed your mind.

You had already made yourself a nutritious dinner of FETOCCINI CARBANARA or however you spell it, as well as MESSAGED ALL YOUR FRIEND GOODNIGHT. It’s 10 O’clock and you feel risky for staying up so late. Hehe.

> Jaspers: Be a teenager for once

Okay, you’ll admit it, even though you may not act like it all the time, you are a teenager. And sometimes, for example right now, you begin thinking about stupid teenage things like, you know, video games and sloppy make out sessions.

Maybe not with a particular person, more like someone very attractive and willing to tend to your needs. A white figure with snowy hair, kissing you, harder, rubbing against you. 

Today is one of those days were this mystery figure has a flat chest, and as they indulge you, they grab your wrists from behind your head, holding them firmly against the pillow. 

They are straddling your lap, kissing you passionately and letting their tongue lazily venture through your mouth, tracing the unknown region yet to experience its first kiss. 

The white figure stays as it usually does, but soon, it dares to nip at your lip, leaking blood, in your mind anyway. Frightened by such an aggressive display of need so early on, you open your lavender eyes, and for a moment, the white figure above you has a familiar snowy white hair, and a momentary smirk. Green eyes, and a green striped sweater.  


Bec. 

You blink again, not believing your eyes, and you’re alone in your room, engulfed in silence. The darkness above you is slightly stained with the face of your best friend, yet the second you close your eyes again, the nameless character caressing your lips with theirs is back. 

Where were they? Oh yes, nipping. Biting. Licking, that’s where they were. Licking your bottom lip, then down your chin, leaving a trail of soft warmth behind it.

> Jaspers: You’re home alone, go further. 

You can feel yourself blushing at such a vulgar thought; you had done this a million times, imagined kissing, making out, but you want something more this time, you want something greater than kissing. Alas you are a proper gentleman whose main priority, like many other mature gentleman, was not that. 

Your hands drift to your neck.

The white figure is gone; it’s just you and silence now. You slowly work your hand up to your bow tie. With two fingers, you untie it, letting the silk fabric slip over your bare hand and stay at the sides of your neck. You hands hesitantly slip down farther, to your tailcoat.

First button, and there is an uninvited chill.

The second is more bearable. 

The third it exciting.

The fifth is blatantly arousing. 

Your coat falls open, and you quickly remove it as well as your white dress shirt- revealing the pale white skin of your chest beneath, untouched by light for years. You look like a ghost, with your very skinny stomach and lack of abs. Your ribs are on the verge of sticking, very apparently, out of your chest, but you digresses, and get back to imagining. 

The air ghosts over your stomach the way you anticipated another human hand would, softly and teasingly, the coldness on your warm flesh making your white skin prick up. 

Giggling, the person above you sucks on your collar bone, and you let out a breathy moan, arching off the bed, but forcing yourself back down, focusing on really feeling what the non existent figure would be doing to you, sucking on your protruding collar bone, licking down your breast, paying extra attention to make the point in the center standing up with arousal.

This figure runs their cold fingers over your protruding hip bones teasingly dipping underneath your trousers. You arch to meet their touch, but they pull away, a soft chuckle on their black painted lips- Ones that you recognize. As Quinns. 

The figure slowly begins morphing into the girl you had been head over heals for for so many years. Her bright smile, black lips, gorgeous giggle. God, you loved her. No, this was wrong, you can’t think of her this way without her consent- and though you tell yourself that so many times, she is still giggling and straddling your lap. And she is still there, her hand gripping the waist of your pants, and pulling them down.

You only feel slightly guilty when you kick them off.

No, stop. This is wrong. You can’t think of her this way. You’re too young for this. Stop, stop, stop. You open your eyes, and she is gone. She is gone and she will stay gone. Sheesh being a teenager is so hard.

You close your eyes again, and the figure is back. Playing with your heart patterned boxers. Like your ideal partner, they don’t laugh. They understand the maturity behind a man with heart patterned boxers. So mature. The epitome of mature. You look mature up in the dictionary, you see a man with heart patterned boxers. 

Back on task, they are playing with the elastic, slowly pulling it down, and thumbing the dark hairs underneath. They’re teasing you. You feel your cock twitch, and a blush bleeds over your face at the fact that you are actually getting turned on by this. 

They pull the cloth down in one fast motion, tossing them with the rest of your clothing. The chill is friendly, yet uninvited to your exposed legs. Everything seems less important than the way your- you mean their hand is moving right now. You can practically feel the warmth of the pads of their fingers, as if they’re real. 

They tug at the small black curls now exposed to the air, your breath hitching, biting down at the cut that they had made on your lip. They scooch down on your legs, getting a better view of your erect member. Their now petite hand not able to make a complete circle around the base of your cock.

Shit- you think, as their hand teases your shaft, moving the slightest bit upwards, only to pull back down. A delicious friction that is so unfamiliar to you. They cackle as your squirm, attempting to get them farther up, trying to pull any last drop of movement you can from their feminine hands.

The feeling of cotton around your sensitive shaft tempts you to look down. White hair shaggy from their own arousal, they look up at you, licking their own lips with the glaze over their light blue eyes. They flash you a smile, gold tooth catching the light that floods in from the window. 

You don’t like this.

You blink rapidly, but unlike the other, the image of your blue shirted comrade stay, and your body still kreens into their grip. Cal was not someone you saw like that they do not belong here. Blink, blink, blink. Still there. Blink, blink, blink. They’re moving faster, farther up your member, twisting just under the head and you moan a bit too loud. Blink, blink, blink, blink, their finger slides over your tip, catching precum that’s budding there. 

Blink, blink, blink, blink, blink.

Your room is strobing around you, but the constant is Cal. The coil in your stomach tightens, your hips arch, Cal cackles. Your vision whites out as your cum, and Cals signature laugh stains your ears.

As you breath in deeply, recovering from orgasm, you make a mental note that tomorrow you may need to mentally check over your priorities.


End file.
